


Kittens From Trees

by Melethril



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Apparently my muse lost her mind, First Meetings, Gen, Just Add Kittens, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:42:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28451106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melethril/pseuds/Melethril
Summary: “Jesus, you would save a litter of kittens during the Apocalypse,” Trevor used to tease him. Before. Two weeks before Paul ended it (not because of that comment, but because Trevor had been in too deep, and Paul did not want to hurt him). Four months before the world ended. Not-exactly-sure-how-many-months before he was here, running from the dead with a crate of kittens in his arms, unable to properly defend himself.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon & Rick Grimes, Daryl Dixon/Jesus
Comments: 4
Kudos: 62





	Kittens From Trees

**Author's Note:**

> Note to self: When writing an angsty story in one fandom, just write another story for another and add kittens. Works wonders...

Paul fast-walked across the field, desperately hoping he would not step into some burrow of a critter. Usually, a dozen walkers did not even cause him to break into sweat (well, it would; it was summer, hot, and he was wearing leather for protection), but his hands were kind of full, and he knew, he just knew that if he put the mewling kittens down, they were dead.

He could not let it happen.

Even if their mother did a valiant effort of peeling the skin of Paul’s face.

“Listen, I’m trying to help you,” he growled at the cat, which in turn did not look convinced and squinted at him angrily with a hiss. “Not going to eat them.”

There was a gas station up front, thank God!

He could clear it, hole up until the dead had enough, or he could put the crate to safety, which would allow him to dispatch of them. Speeding up, he managed to get around two football fields worth of distance between himself and the dead as he arrived at the gas station, realizing that there was only one entrance up front. Cursing inwardly, he silently stalked forward, making sure not to make any noise, just in case there were people or more of the dead on the other side.

Even the cat decided to stop her torment for just a moment and lowered her body down on her kittens drowning out the mewling of the litter.

_Good kitty._

“’s just soda cans and candy.” He heard a man say and pressed his body against the wall, hoping they remained unaware of his presence. “Why go through all the trouble?”

Humans were more dangerous than the dead these days, and the two men looked rough, capable and dangerous.

And he did not have his hands free.

_Fuck._

“No trouble,” said the other man. Where one man’s voice was deep, smooth and on the lower side of the vocal spectrum, this man’s voice was higher but growly, and Paul had a hard time reading either.

“Come on, let’s go,” said the first of the two men, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “This thing’s too heavy. Not worth the effort.”

“Not an effort,” insisted the other man and Paul rolled his eyes, waiting for the right moment to slip past them, but they seemed observant. The dead were drawing in closer.

“Daryl…”

“Special request from the doc, okay?”

“Soda cans?”

“She said Tara talked about it in her sleep. Wants to give it to her as a surprise if it’s no trouble,” rumbled the other man, the roughness of his demeanor belying the sweetness of the message.

“Okay,” smiled the other man, gently, nodding. “No trouble, then. Doc gets what she wants.”

“No trouble,” repeated “Daryl. “Got an idea.”

The dead had closed in and shit, he could not let the men be surprised by them without warning and even if their kindness only extended to their own people, there was kindness, and Paul just hoped it was enough not to die today.

“Hi,” said he causing both men to whirl around, their guns pointed at him within the blink of an eye. He would love to wave, make himself look more harmless, but then he figured a crate full of kittens would have to do. “Sorry to interrupt. The dead are following and I kind of have my hands full.”

They stared at him. Both men were about the same height, taller than him, both slim but Daryl, with the excess strands of hair that hid his face effectively, had broader shoulders and well-muscled arms. Okay, they both looked gorgeous. Paul smiled, but they could not see it through the bandana covering his mouth.

“How many?” asked slim-looking-like-a-cowboy-sheriff-mix, and obviously the leader of the two.

“A dozen,” said he, and he suddenly realized that he had no idea whether these men could deal with so many. “Look, just-“ He did want to give away the game too quickly. He wanted them to underestimate him, but he had to protect the kittens, and he did not know how good they were at dispatching walkers.

They stared at him for far too long. Then, to his surprise, Daryl, who looked like a redneck wifebeater was the one who acted first, kind of messing up the power dynamics Paul had been convinced of.

“Get behind us,” said Daryl. Then he growled dangerously. “You let go off that crate for a second. You move these hands of yours and I will kill you.”

He was not joking and Paul nodded, and did as he was told. He strengthened his grip on the crate while getting scratched by the mother cat who had resumed her assault on Paul’s face with lots of hissing. He could only watch.

He was relieved to see that the men knew what they were doing: they were efficient, quick and deadly. Of course, that put Paul in danger, but they dispatched of the dead with beautiful ease. They had obviously worked together a lot and trusted each other blindly, not letting through a single walker.

“Keep up,” shouted the rougher man, glaring at Paul, and so he was forced to move with them, crate in hand, getting hissed at and scratched, his hopes of bolting and taking their truck slimming in the process. If only he had his hands free to swipe the keys… he would definitely have to learn how to hotwire a truck.

Out of the blue, two of the dead came in from slightly different angles and went straight for Paul. Before he could even say anything, both men spun around and dispatched of these bodies as well.

“Okay?” asked Daryl.

“Yeah,” was the cowboy’s response.

Then they moved, and placed themselves between Paul and the truck, guns out again.

_Damn._

“Where’s your camp?” asked Daryl.

“Camp?” repeated Paul innocently.

“Don’t be stupid,” said he. “Nobody saves kittens when they don’t have a place to bring them to.”

“Maybe, they’re just a meal,” suggested Paul, feeling vaguely nauseous at the thought.

“Ain’t no meat on any’a’them,” was the cool response. “If you lived out here, you’d know. Again, where’s your camp?”

“Where’s yours?” asked Paul. He was at a disadvantage here; his hands were occupied and he knew being confrontational with these men was a dangerous play.

“Got no camp,” said Daryl instantly. Paul, for the split of a second, looked at the dispenser with the soda, but his unconscious action gave him away, revealing he had overheard them. The rough man’s eyes narrowed.

“Look,” said Paul gently, clearly caught. They knew he knew, and out here, knowing was dangerous. “I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

As if the bitchy cat finally decided that he truly did not wish to eat her kittens (or because she figured she was better off with the two men), she let lose the most pitiful, sweet cry Paul had ever heard her utter. She practically blinked up at the two men in front of them and started to purr.

_Little traitor._

It worked, though. Daryl and his friend both visibly relaxed.

“Come to the Dark Side. We have kittens?” Paul suggested lightly, again cursing the fact they could not see his face. The mother cat edged near the men, stretching her neck, so that Daryl was just within petting reach. His lips formed a tiny smile as he roughly put his hand on her head and scratched her.

The little traitor just purred.

“I’d like to remind you that _I_ was the one to save your ass,” he hissed at her. Unimpressed, she turned and hissed at him before letting Daryl’s hand pet her, purring all the while. A snort escaped Daryl and the other man too looked amused.

“I’m Rick. This is Daryl.”

“Paul Rovia,” replied Paul and, for the first time in ages, because his hands were full and his mouth covered, and they would not get the moniker as he was now, he left it at that, feeling oddly vulnerable in the process.

“How many walkers have you killed?”

**Author's Note:**

> Daryl is a dog person, Paul is a cat person. So you know the cat will prefer Daryl because it's a cat.  
> Actually, I think Daryl is a non-human person, preferring dogs and cats over humans by a mile, and animals like him in return (unless he's hunting them).


End file.
